[Words like those had never been his strongest suit, and that remained the case. So he held Mettaton tight; wrapped him up as much as his arms could manage, and it still didn't feel like enough. It never would, but he held him all the same. Lips pressed to his throat, he kisses him again, softly.
There was no hint of fur in his lover's scent, nothing of whatever attribute being a puca had once added to him. But Mettaton was still recognizably himself, just as his form was familiar, even though it was also no longer distorted by a rabbit's features. (Emet-Selch tried not to think about how Mettaton wouldn't be able to smell him, nor scent him as he once had. Nor would he be able to taste him... or anything else.
Why would something so base and primitive matter? And yet he missed it, selfishly.)
He still didn't see what exactly he'd done to be worthy of gratitude, considering that all he'd done is ask the big rock for help, because he couldn't do anything himself. His magic and knowledge had been useless, non-existent. So he shakes his head at Mettaton's insistence on thanking him- and sighs more heavily at the idea of not being suspicious over their "good" "fortune".]
You can put any distrust wherever you'd like. I'll keep mine right where it is. Nor do I plan on going into debt, cosmic or otherwise, no matter how well-oiled you feel.
[Because all that just sounded like an excuse for Mettaton to indulge in whatever sort of extravagant living he could wish or buy on credit. And he didn't want to be dragged into the afterlife of financial ruin with him.
But he can't manage to look too dubious when Mettaton leans his head back, and their eyes meet. Sentiment was still too strong, and he felt it keenly. Gaze lowering, eyes nearly closing again when their foreheads brush together, his voice lowers again to match the intimacy.]
Though 'twas far briefer of a time, I... [Did much the same. Longed for, dreamed. Waited. Longed more. Swallowing back a low, unhappy noise, he shakes his head, just a little.] I've managed, one way or another.
[It was because it never felt like enough and that they were so insatiable that Mettaton could feel the breadth of it, he thought. As he feels Emet-Selch cling tight to his synthetic body, the robot squeezes him close, urges his spine to bend in just the right places so that their figures were flush in many spots. So that Emet-Selch was pressed around his broad chest, and right down to his tapered, dramatic waist. Against his core; Mettaton was warmest of all right there, especially while his body lacked access to all of its heating enhancements meant to channel his core temperature into something worthwhile.
Emet-Selch's sorrow over his loneliness is felt, and Mettaton continues to rub his lower back with a pitiful sound. Their eyes are matched, but Mettaton disturbs the connection by pressing forward and meeting lips instead. Taking Emet-Selch's lovingly between his own, it's a lingering, warm kiss. Even if he lacked saliva, it was made up for by the softness of silicone—and Mettaton could feel the tenderness of Emet-Selch's lips, if not his warmth. He craved him more and more as every second passed, but this... This felt sublime.
He wondered how long it would take for his desire for him to overwhelm him, to the point of frustration. It was something to talk to Emet-Selch about at some point. Inevitably, he'd have to address all that he lacked—which would have never been a problem or a point of conversation, had he never been granted it in the first place. Mettaton is perfect just the way he is, he would agree to the claim.
But he wanted more. Ravenously, he wanted more.
His heated desire is a conveyance through a tender, somber kiss, gentle but full and with the edge of heat both metaphorical, and physical- as MTT's internal components didn't stop generating heat, and that heat could escape from past his lips. Nuzzling noses, Mettaton even stoops in to press his cheek against Emet-Selch's in something of a scenting gesture of all things. You could take the Puca from Mettaton, but now that he's been one, there were certain habits he'd developed that he, too, found congenial and hard to break. ...In a way, maybe Emet-Selch was being scented, if a cherry-scented robot was scent enough.]
... Thank you, for managing for as long as you did, darling. But no longer! [He smiles wide and bright.] We have each other once again, and doing well, at that. That is...
[Drawing back slightly, Mettaton fixes Emet-Selch with a more analytical look.] How are your injuries doing, Hades? I see your face has improved... a bit. Ah...
[His hand winds up Emet-Selch's body until digits can prod gently at healing welts, which have become more like reddened flesh. Still, there were more injuries than that—and MTT's hand reflexively moves to his heart next.]
[Even though there were limits to his spine, to what his back could tolerate, Emet-Selch ignores it as much as he could, to better fit to Mettaton's particular shape. That the taller man couldn't offer the same heating services as before, he's unaware; he seemed warm enough as it was, the ambient robot temperature enough for him, especially when he was still clothed himself.
A kiss between them was inevitable, and Emet-Selch leans to meet it with the smallest sound that's quickly consumed by the security of their lips together.
He knew, of course, of Mettaton's lack of saliva. He'd kissed him before without it, and even if that made things a bit dryer between them than usual- the softness was just as he remembered. And the warmth with it, both features that felt entirely alive to him, even though they were synthetic in their most literal sense.
And it was tempting to deepen it, to offer all the breath he had to give- more than tempting, no matter how serious the kiss, and his heart speeds from the thought of how much he wanted. But he doesn't protest when it's paused, when Mettaton nudges their noses together, when he even rubs his cheek with his own, in a gesture that felt so familiar that it left him briefly stricken. Even if Mettaton lacked the glands and the pheromones of a puca, surely something of him would rub off all the same....
And it was sweetly affectionate besides. Gathering himself anew as Mettaton speaks, he nods to him.]
A bit sore... [He confesses, but it was an honest assessment. Neither elevated for the sake of complaint, nor downplayed because it was genuinely unpleasant. The inspection of his face through sight and touch goes without flinching or tension, though the welts themselves were still tender. But not raw, the redness of healing flesh rather than inflamed with infection.] I think natural healing still outpaces what I can do with magic....
[That bit was more of a grumble, but less frustrated than it could've been. And he goes still as Mettaton's winding grip moves onward, before pressing deliberately into his touch.]
--That part, is likely sorest of all.
[Metaphorically and literally. But literally too, as while even cushioned by fabric, he felt a distinct ache when Mettaton's hand snakes around to touch his heart. The bruises of injury there were still dark, and the arrow-wound notable, if closed over by healing skin. It would almost certainly scar.]
[Mettaton smiles against Emet-Selch's lips at the feeling of him bending, contorting with the coaxing of his touch to meld against metal. If any of them was to form against the other, it would have to be Emet-Selch, as it always was. He was even contributing, pressing himself as firmly as he could- and even pressing deep into their kiss, their lips locked enough that he knew they could easily deepen that kiss until there was no way they could break from it.
A low, soft growl- a brief thing, really. It's a sign of Mettaton's willingness to steal his breath. But... he wanted to address something else. So they break apart, just far enough to converse. Though he's not a Puca, enough of being one has become a part of him. It doesn't take a thought for him to want to scent Emet-Selch, nor does growling seem foreign when claiming his husband. He could easily envision himself working from his neck down to his shoulders, his chest, over his soft abdomen and lower still.....
But what reaches his chest instead is his own hand, though the touch is firm as much as it is tender. He offers Emet-Selch a warm, soft smile. Would Emet-Selch even practice his healing talents while he had them?
The mage's stillness is followed by a press, and Mettaton exhales heat. That smile sobers slightly, as the robot stoops forward to press a kiss to the base of Emet-Selch's neck. ...For once, tall ears do not press or slap against his face in the process, and though it had never been something he thought about before, he notices its absence. Even still, kissing him wasn't the part that felt off.]
And with sore as the improvement, I take it... How I wish I could speed your recovery. [He says this at first close to his neck, as he pulls back. His fingers gently rub against Emet-Selch's chest, a tender touch followed by the press of his palm.] I'd like to see it for myself.
[Mettaton was visual, just as much as he was tactile. He wanted to see Emet-Selch's chest, the wound that came from ending a senseless night of agonizing loneliness and savagery. He kisses at his jaw, holding Emet-Selch still tight to his body, and knew even without seeing it that it would scar. One way or another, it would scar. ...Often, these scars ended up right over Emet-Selch's heart, he thinks with a small, soft smile.
Transfixed momentarily by Emet-Selch's eyes, Mettaton's lips part with no sound to pair it.]
Will you come with me, darling? We've barely had a moment just to ourselves.
[Starting strong with violence and terror, then moving along to injury and recovery. Then more of it... and now, they were something resembling stability. Emet-Selch was the only one sore, and that was close to normalcy.]
[The hint of a growl was no less familiar- nor appealing, a light shiver running through the mage's body, one that would be easily felt with how closely they were pressed. An appreciation for the sound, and for the interest that he knew lay behind it, a willingness to steal his air, and for more than that....
But they speak instead, something Emet-Selch couldn't do when his lips were covered. And his heart stirs more quickly still, when Mettaton dips briefly to his neck, an expanse the mage offers to him freely, affected easily by the kiss (though noticing too, the lack of long ears in his face, leaning for him and smacking him as they often did... but that was just how it was now, unless Mettaton deliberately shapeshifted them back).]
Will your presence not suffice for a balm? You're always telling me of your willingness to distract me from my pains....
[A low-voiced murmur, close to his face. And for all that Emet-Selch wanted to curl back to his body, he waits for that too, as he feels his lover's hand between them, against the fabric over his heart, and looks back up to meet his gaze. Returns one kiss with another, at the edge of Mettaton's lips, tempering the want to linger there, to coax him into more.
His heart so often ended up scarred. Emet-Selch realizes it too, and isn't sure what to think about it. If there was any way to think about it at all, that it wasn't just... what it was. A natural place to find wounded.
And one that he would willingly show him. Wordlessly, he nods, caught up just as easily in Mettaton's violet eye. Though he'd been used to the gold, this was something he was drawn to no less, a look he could drown in with no hope of coming up for air. And no desire to.
There had been little time to spend together properly, not with one or the other of them being out of commission, unconscious, or insane. This was as good as it might be- as it was true enough that Emet-Selch was frequently sore anyway (if not generally from the aftermath of having been electrocuted and shot).
It wasn't with the same stumbling heat that drove them now, the breathless passion that barely managed to reach a bed, with their legs tangled and bodies aching. But it was with a kind of passion nonetheless, an insistence, for closeness, for intimacy. And though it was Mettaton's suggestion, he pulls back to answer it, to step towards the bedroom- though without his own hands leaving the robot's body entirely, trailing instead to his sides, his hips.]
I'll show you anything you want. We've the time for it now.
[Time and place and sanity. The reassurance that they were together, he wanted to feel it in his touch.]
[A passion all its own, and as Emet-Selch suggests MTT's inclination toward soothing him with all of himself thoroughly applied, he can't help but smile. And smile more, hopelessly enamored by the touch of hands on his hips that felt... agonizingly sensitive, in the way it was so dull. A bizarre combination, that, and one he'd get a chance to pour over later.
But for now, he rocks his hip; he presses himself into Emet-Selch's touch, a sway to his step that was seductive and deliberate in. He nearly wavers, affected. (Gods, it was insanity, to be deprived of vivid and mind-numbing sensation. Then, to go a month without the feeling of touch... Mettaton knew without labelling it explicitly that he was addicted, and his body as it is registered sensation dully compared to a robotic Puca. He thinks this without words, a buzzing in the back of his head.) He wanted to be the balm that soothed, the distraction Emet-Selch coveted to make the pain drain into pleasure- to override it with sensation generated by himself, and to leave him properly loved. And with that feeling, Mettaton wobbles, overcome.
It's a glamorously graceful wobble, though. A tip of his head that exposes neck; the tease of his thighs pressing together mid-step, paired with a heated exhale. Mettaton wraps his arm affectionately around Emet-Selch in return, kissing the side of his head in a fleeting peck of lips.]
Show me... and I'll whip up a remedy to soothe your aches, darling.
[Another small smile curves upon his lips and colors his tone. They had time; this was a moment all their own, the world outside peaceful, the rain starting to drizzle gently upon the cottage roof. It was homey; it was safe, because Emet-Selch was here.
Mettaton never thought he'd appreciate safety as much as he does now that he has Emet-Selch in his life. Safety in ways that exceed being protected. It was the safety of intimate company, in a world where he gave himself in the form of an object of fantasy, an indulgence to be shared. Emet-Selch was where he was wholly himself, including every part others wouldn't be permitted to handle.
Toward the bedroom their gradual pace takes them, steady as the pitter-patter of rain tapping lightly the cobblestone pathway outside the concealing fabric of plain curtains. This bedroom didn't have Mettaton's flair, not yet; it had some belongings, a torn robe here or a wool sweater there, complete with a damaged robotic arm- but it hadn't been properly taken apart. A lack of resources is to blame for sure. But at least in its middle is a proper, if modest, bed, suited for the two of them to fit.
Even though it's a home all their own, Mettaton closes the door behind them. His arm trails low against the small of Emet-Selch's back, toying with fabric, the itch to strip him something he has patience for because he knew he'd have him exposed soon enough. But his gaze is warm and pointed, watching the Ascian at his side hungrily. He spares him a smile before glancing around their accomodations.]
... The last time you and I stayed in something so spartan, it was a room hardly yours, back in your shared abode in Aefenglom. That, or... some of what we enjoyed in Nippon. Though that was nicer. I didn't have to barter for running water there. [He snorts, leaning in to give Emet-Selch's temple a kiss.]
[Only Mettaton could turn what would be a stagger in others, into something both seductive and graceful. They weren't Bonded, but he could almost feel that edge of overcome himself- perhaps because he felt it in his own right, as their souls didn't need to be tied for sympathetic responses to exist between them. And for all that Mettaton didn't usually wear clothes, his body on full and technically naked display as a rule, that didn't keep him from being a lure to Emet-Selch regardless, a tease that asked for his touch.
He wondered over how much his lover could feel, even as he plainly reacted to having his hands on his body. He knew of the senses that would be missing entirely... but touch. How much did Mettaton have as a corporealized ghost, and how much had being a puca given him?
But the mage hums a small sound, an assent to Mettaton's idea of remedy- and a sign of small pleasure to his kiss. And they make the short distance to their bedroom, as rain begins to beat down on the roof somewhere above. An encouragement to remain indoors for a time; a pleasant ambient noise to further block out the rest of the world. This was all the safety they could manage; this was all that was needed, for a little while.
Their accommodations were modest, to be polite. Far moreso than what they were used to. Not terrible in structure, if small, a base for more to be added... so long as they could somehow obtain the more from somewhere.]
Both were somewhat more well-equipped. [He sighs to follow Mettaton's snort. Not only the worlds, but they themselves were made lesser here. Had he his powers, it wouldn't matter if their residence were simple, as he could create anything they lacked. Leaning in, he presses a kiss of his own to Mettaton's neck.] Thank you for bartering all the same, for luxuries you barely need.
[Running water wasn't quite as useful to a robot. And electricity, with charging apparently not an issue anymore (a small mercy), in a similar extraneous position. But organic bodies needed water, and benefited from being able to cook their food.
But they both needed more than that, things outside of a roof above them, or a bed underneath them, but which benefited from both. Where Mettaton barely resists stripping him, Emet-Selch barely resists dragging him tight to his body again, in kissing him hard. Instead he slips back to the bed, even if it meant pulling away from his arm, to sit down at the side of it, facing him.
Leaning over to quickly unfasten and remove his shoes, in preparation for getting into bed properly, he sighs another time.]
[Even this felt somewhat nostalgic. Rain, indoors; intimacy, exploration. Experimentation. God, what a night that had been, when they took to the sheets on a rainy evening, their hearts a lure to the other they couldn't deny. And Emet-Selch had been so eager to grip the cock Mettaton had manifested just for them, leading to certain and unending arousal for nights to come...
Even if, on that particular evening, Emet-Selch was possessed by fits of unconsciousness. It was the more unfortunate part of the time, but Mettaton regarded it fondly all the same.
The two lovers found themselves here, an island in space and time and supposedly locked in the realm of dreams. But they were together, and Mettaton couldn't be more thankful.
With a small smile, he answers Emet-Selch's gratitude with a small nod, and a bend to press another whisper of a kiss against the corner of Emet-Selch's lips. Need is barely contained, and teased in the brush of lips, as the robot sighs a push of heat.]
We've already begun. We're here. Together, you... you and I.
[Emet-Selch may be pulling away, removing his shoes (which seemed much easier than his boots ever had, these charming little shoes, simple in design), in answer to the restraint they barely possessed. But Mettaton responds to their heat all the same, a tension in his voice of eager, tight desire, the sort that would inflict leaning rabbit ears if he possessed them. Lips parted, he ogles Emet-Selch's figure in the meantime without a shred of shame. Why should he have that, when he was enjoying the sight of his husband?
Heels click upon weathered wooden floorboards in Mettaton's advance, and his fingertips graze along the bed. He'd so recently awoken here that he wondered if it would be warm where he'd been... And he felt anything but groggy. As soon as the mage has his shoes removed, Mettaton slinks onto the bed knees-first, hands reaching to slip 'round his waist in a gentle hold.]
We'll make this place our own retreat. And as I ever have... I will watch out for you, Hades-darling. [He pecks the side of Emet-Selch's head.] Just as I know you always will, me.
[There were no dangers to keep track of for now. All they had was the promise of each other's bodies, and Mettaton licks his lips as he pines for the warm figure beneath clothing that he could prod and touch. His digits slip underneath, coaxing Emet-Selch closer, with fewer articles of clothing preferred. His fingers pick at fabric near Emet-Selch's hips.
He smiles at him, sunny and warm.]
And... I'm here for you, dearest. We'll take care of our desires. One by one.
[Though he's not thinking of any specific past instance himself, the moment did strike Emet-Selch as somewhat nostalgic. Familiar, in the way they settled together in what privacy they could find, shutting out the outside world for a time. One more world to shut out, in favor of their lover- an easy preference, to turn their attention to this.
Shamelessly, they gaze upon each other. There had never been any lack of hesitation there, nor self-consciousness. And no reason for it to start, when need was only ever tempered for the sake of something more. Mettaton slips onto the bed with all the grace he was familiar with, and no less affected by- as there was no coaxing required for the mage to lean towards him, to seek out his arms and body.
Interest was certainly alight, between them. And distraction with it; already, Emet-Selch was less conscious of his various less-pleasant aches and sores. And if he wasn't as well-rested as Mettaton, he was about as awake as he ever was, all his consciousness focused on the man beside him.
There were no dangers, for now, and no telling when the next crisis would arise. For right now they were together, and that was all they ever seemed to have. Only the present, for as long as it managed to last.]
Then... stay with me, this time.
[The bed underneath might very well have some remnant of robotic-heat left on its covers. Clothed as he was, Emet-Selch couldn't tell, but there was an easy solution to that problem. The plucking at the fabric at his hips could easily transition to a removal of it all. And while he wasn't impatient for his greater touch, there was no hiding that he dearly wanted it.]
You can't take care of anything if you're not here. [His voice is quiet, lifting a hand to cup the side of his husband's face- no longer rent by anyone's claws.] But I don't think we'll ever catch up, like this.
[To the request to stay, he nods. The demand to stay. Of course he'd stay. He had always intended to... There hadn't been a single moment where he ever thought to depart from Emet-Selch's side, save for fleetingly. He would return. He always would.
Emet-Selch is on the bed and Mettaton is on his knees, encircling the smaller man in an embrace. Interest was electricity, and the two of them were equally charged, a contagion that intensified as it bounced between them, as they infected each other over and again. Crises seemed to follow them... but Mettaton lived in this moment where there was none, and Emet-Selch was miraculously drawn in with him.
The hand pressed his cheek is leaned into with a curtaining of lashes, a sweet smile pulling the corner of his lips. His face was restored, and the sensation of Emet-Selch's hand there is something he cherishes with his eye closed. With a hum, he cracks open his eye, but only slightly.
He doesn't think they'll catch up like this. His eyebrow lifts; his pupil runs down Emet-Selch's clothes, where his own fingers are.]
How do you mean? We won't catch up...
[He runs over the statement in his head as he scoots closer, straddling Emet-Selch from behind him with knees on either side of his thighs. And from there, Mettaton maintains as much contact as he can with the hand against his cheek as he presses his hands fully against bare skin. Starting from his hips, Mettaton lifts Emet-Selch's clothes off, making deft but desirous work of both shucking fabric, and giving Emet-Selch a good feel-up. Up and over his head comes flowing fabric, baring Emet-Selch's torso to the air. Contentedly, he sighs.]
Hmm... If you mean to say that we'll never truly conquer the full of our desires, yes. We won't. [He leans in, kissing the back of Emet-Selch's neck as he sidles his entire body flush to Emet-Selch's.] But that's because you keep encouraging more and more in me.
[... And there would be regrettable desires more that would go un-cared for. Mettaton tries not to think about his lacking body for the moment. Someday... someday, he would be in possession of an anatomy, of powers that suited him—and enabled him the same sexual indulgence they'd once enjoyed. He holds fast to the confidence that he still wants Emet-Selch carnally; that Emet-Selch had always been able to drive him mad.]
[Letting his hand fall away from Mettaton's face in order to facilitate the removal of his clothes (and with the robot fully behind him, it wasn't exactly comfortable anyway), his torso is left bare to the open air. Air that wasn't quite chilly, but he shivers all the same, and is encouraged to lean back for him.
Beyond the fresh scarring above his heart, there's the sign of lesser injuries on the mage's body. Bruises that were turning towards the greenish-yellow were scattered across him, along with patches of scabbing. Places where fur had grown, and that he'd torn out. None of it was serious, but it added a bit of soreness to him.
Which he's not thinking of too clearly when Mettaton was kissing his neck, when he could feel his body against skin, a sensation he stretches into with a small sound.]
I would do more than encourage. More and more that....
[--would they even be able to fulfill? Emet-Selch can't help but recall that unfortunate aspect of their combination currently. It wouldn't be for the first time, but for far longer than otherwise, Mettaton had been more than able to match him in the ability to demonstrate arousal. He looks down towards the bed, even as he rests against his body.]
You'll have to learn to shapeshift properly. Soon.
[Mettaton wouldn't be the only one frustrated, at this rate. Though he would admit that the former-puca would have it worse, in not having a cock at all... he wouldn't pretend otherwise that so much of his own pleasure was tied up in the robot's. Not only when it came with the sensation of being filled by him, but just being in the company of his aroused state was enticing.
Though Emet-Selch was already getting hard, a firming line notable within his trousers, he tried to temper his expectations. Which mostly led to a dampening of them, in actuality, and his exhale is as sad as it is interested.]
[There it is, in plain air between them. Mettaton knew it was something that would become addressed at some point, either nor, or at the peaks of desire as Mettaton squirmed and ached and pleaded for something he'd actually had, a mirroring experience to the time that he'd wished for it before ever having had a cock. Some way to demonstrate his arousal in a way like Emet-Selch...
He doesn't frown, but his eye meets the same spot as Emet-Selch's, without knowing it. He rests his cheek against the back of his neck, white strands of hair meeting jet black. Wrapping his arms totally around Emet-Selch's waist, his hands crawl up his front, prodding hungrily at skin. Where he stops is at his chest: Mettaton brushes his fingertips over the Ascian's nipples, before settling with each palm over his chest. Grabbin his plentiful bosom. Nice.
They'd both end up frustrated, if Mettaton weren't capable of manifesting a hard erection that hurled him toward desperation. He knew they both thrived on that. It felt like a treat to be granted this sort of explicit demonstration and all of the relief it brought with it, and even those veins in his very body felt that relief in release. It felt like it should've been a part of him.
A sort of bodily dysphoria settles in over Mettaton, and he lets it rather than banishing it. After all, this was the safest place to feel the entire breadth of his feelings. To think, that the robotic body of his dreams lacked something so crucial, overlooked... And he hadn't even asked Alphys to make good on some of these more practical upgrades! It's not as though they haven't talked about it before, but after making it to the Surface, Mettaton either had no time, or... he was a Puca. She would've done it, too. Something something about not making a fuckable robot...
He hums. Mettaton handles Emet-Selch's chest, feeling for the suppleness of muscle and flesh. It felt nice. He wondered if he could be a human like some of the other robots he'd met here.]
Too true, darling. Too true. [A breath of a laugh couples his lament.] It's maddening, going back. I can't begin to describe it to anyone else, what I've lost... Nor would I like to give up my body.
[He chews on his lip, lifting his head from the back of Emet-Selch's neck. One of his hands daringly, but carefully, roams over Emet-Selch's chest blindly, trying to find the damage done before he sees it with his eyes- a sort of way to connect with their bodies deeply, where his tactile sensation's become slightly dulled. At least he had any. This body was a blessing, in that regard.]
... I did meet a robot here, who had been turned into a human. [Even as he speaks, Mettaton runs a hand over the expanse of his chest; each time a finger drifts against his nipples, he is sure to prod, to flick, to drag digits along, as his arms are warmly pressed to his sides. His voice is low and sleek.] For some reason, I was not treated to the same fate.
[It was something inevitable. It wasn't as though neither of them were unaware of the issue, that certain limitations to Mettaton's beloved body ran contrary to how they were used to expressing themselves. A functional display of ardor, that they both adored tending to....
It was better than no body at all. The smaller man accepted that much, was even grateful for that much, that his lover was spared the discomfort of feeling nothing, of not possessing a shape that suited how he saw himself. (And more selfishly, Emet-Selch was relieved to be able to hold him at all, something that wouldn't have been possible had he been a ghost with nothing to hide in.)
And he appreciated with it, that Mettaton was touching him now, was presumably feeling something of the skin underneath his fingers, of the tension he could inspire in his muscles. Temperature, the warmth of his body, those details would be lost, but Mettaton hadn't had much of that to start with.
So Emet-Selch manages a pleased noise, despite his discontent. An approval reflected in the way he presses back to him, assuming that Mettaton would continue handling his chest. His nipples too, react immediately to touch, hardening from even a brush of attention. And arousal comes with it, a warmth that gathered in his body, as it so often did in Mettaton's company.
Though there were multiple reasons to temper it. There was the more immediate of fingers reaching and inspecting for wounds. Gently so, and while it wasn't too uncomfortable physically, it was a reminder of what had happened that night. They'd found each other only to hurt each other- but there was nothing new about that, it was only a matter of degree.
But more reason was their conversation, this addressing what they needed to, when it came to what Mettaton had lost, in arriving here. In being an unaltered robot.
That another robot's body had changed was a surprise, and his brow furrows. Was it because Mettaton wasn't a true robot, that he'd been neglected, somehow? Even as Mettaton toys with his nipples, he couldn't get too distracted, one of his hands moving to brush against a freshly grown hand.]
...Would you have preferred to become human?
[Was this something Mettaton would wish for? Emet-Selch wasn't sure how he felt about that. It would depend entirely on whether it would be a permanent change that would somehow carry across worlds, making Mettaton no longer a monster- and unbearably mortal.]
[He so adores it when Emet-Selch stretches into his touch. Mettaton smiles wider, pleased at the demonstration of proneness to his touch and presence. Emet-Selch's vulnerability in his presence made it easy to be fully, wholly himself, including any of those bits of himself he'd otherwise be too uncomfortable to mention. With him, he could. With him, it felt productive and even soothing, even if in the moment it left him uneasy.
The love he feels for Emet-Selch is something he longed to share. Another thing lost is their Bond... but the robot feels confident that he can share that love in actions. Pressing into Emet-Selch, he makes a small noise as he nuzzles against his neck, burying his face there and breathing him in. He could just barely smell him, the scent of him occurring to Mettaton in impressions from memory...
It's there that he knows his reply.]
I already told you once before, Hades. It's an appealing thought... but after meeting you, I think my decision's different than it would've been. And besides.
[Tightening his arms against Emet-Selch's sides, the robot winds each arm around Emet-Selch's person tight, all the way until he's right back around again and gripping firmly over each pectoral. His thumbs roll gently over the firming flesh of his nipples, and Mettaton sighs fondly over their response to his attentions.]
Can a human do this...? I find my body is uniquely mine. To dip my toes in and experience what it's like to be human is one thing... and I like that. But I like myself as I am. There's a reason I corporealized with this body. This is me.
[Confidently he answers, having already dwelled on this before. If he were confronted with the option here, if it were the only way he could properly have sex with Emet-Selch... and if it were guaranteed that it wasn't his forever body, maybe. He knew he'd miss the silicone, the metal, the durability and the absurd things he could do with this body that humans could not. The feeling of organs in his chest was also still something he felt hyper-aware of sometimes... and while he knew he could adapt, he simply likes this way of being.
But the touch. The sensation. The sensuality. Organic beings promised so much... and it was a temptation too great to ignore. He wanted those things one way or another, and if there were a way to obtain them, he knew he would take it.
Pressing forward, Mettaton's sure to roll his hips, to grind his crotch against Emet-Selch's back with a sigh. He presses entirely flush, curling around him as he tightens his grip, pinching his nipples in the process. Sloppy kisses that would've been surely damp are applied along his shoulder.]
I rather like being me... and having the sensation and the equipment of a more organic being. Mind, darling. I haven't lost heart. One way or another... these are attainable goals, with the right resources. [He pecks his shoulder before lifting his head, hovering slightly over him enough that they can meet eyes.] If I can't find someone to augment my body in this more sexual direction, why... there will be a way. A more magically-inclined way.
[A wish. Emet-Selch's powers, returned to him. Mettaton knew there were ways, and he'd have to impatiently work for it.]
[The relief he feels at that answer is more than he expected, as he'd assumed in himself more ambivalence. But he relaxes, even snuggles back into his lover's embrace, even managing a half-smile as Mettaton demonstrates one of those features he could only have this way.]
Good. I would miss this body.
[Though he would adapt to whatever Mettaton had, this one, with its sturdy features capable of crushing him, with winding arms capable of constricting him- this one, he was already attached to. (If not in the literal way Mettaton was attached to it.) And he squirms, pleased to be caught, to be wrapped up, encouraging the security of his hold- and the way his nipples could be played with at the same time. Even so--]
Though your puca variant was...
[He doesn't even conclude that statement with anything but a sigh. He missed that. All the robotic benefits, plus many of the organic ones. He'd found the claws, the ears, even the fur- endearing. Pleasant to touch. And with full shapeshifting at his disposal, Mettaton could take a break from those features as wanted. Could try on a fully organic body... or at least a semi-organic erection.
Since the grinding against his back, erotic as it was, was less of a tease than it should've been, as there was nothing more there to look forward to, right now.]
We'll find some way of restoring you the pertinent details.
[Though resolute, his tone was a bit tired too, to think on all they would have to reobtain. (Their Bond he simply grieved for.) Kisses against his shoulder too weren't quite the same, though he liked the sensation anyway. It wasn't as if he missed precisely Mettaton drooling on him as he sometimes did, but he was conscious of the dryness of silicone. Soft and warm, but dry- and incapable of neither tasting nor feeling his own heat.
Which was altogether nearly as much of a downer as the lack of cock.]
Though that doesn't change the now. How much will you- can you even feel of me?
[Mettaton can't help himself. Brightly he laughs, beside himself at Emet-Selch's appreciation for his body. And while he knew he appreciated it because he had a thing against the mortal failings of human bodies,]
You'd better miss it, honey! This body's as good as yours, and I expect you to love it as much as I do.
[And though it's a playful comment... there was perhaps some truth to it, as Mettaton knew Emet-Selch was fond of his form for a good many reasons. It made Mettaton more vulnerable than he would've been without a body—but thinking of himself without a body is simply abhorrent, and Emet-Selch knew that, too. It gave Mettaton so much more. It gave him clarity, confidence, and ways to interact with the world that he'd never had before.
It just wasn't equipped. And that fact is glaringly obvious between them, as between Mettaton thighs is a whole lot of nothing. His puca variant had at least brought with it the enhancement of sensation, if disturbing in its ways. The flesh and veins and organs that crept beneath the surface of silicone and metal... It would disturb any good mechanic, particularly the sorts who wanted to see no cyborgs.
Mettaton was a mess inside, even though he'd felt better and more vividly than ever. His puca variant was something to miss; to that, Mettaton hugs him tight. Against his skin, he interjects with a mutter.]
... I didn't mind it, either. All of the little things...
[... He does have that, anyway. Even if it's not quite so detailed, anatomically, and more of a magical manifestation. Mettaton partially shapeshifts into a rabbit—but it's only that much, with fur upon his hips, claws on fingertips, ears upon his head... and rabbit feet where heels once were. They'd find a way, and Mettaton nuzzles Emet-Selch deeply with an appreciative sound.]
Right now, [he starts, ears folding back;] It's about as much as I'd gained from corporealizing, dear. More than I used to have. Less than what I gained in Aefenglom. The harder the touch, the more I feel it.
[Pressure that increased also increased in sensitivity, and things outright painful felt the most intense he could get it. Mettaton sighs, thinking about the very first time he'd ever felt anything so bright that it blinded, which was... Wow. Fighting against Frisk. Unfortunate.
And now, that was about as intense as it got. Emet-Selch had introduced him to so much more, and Mettaton snorts, giving the Ascian's nipple a departing pinch before smoothing over his chest, letting the tips of claws graze along in his wake.]
I have a feeling my memory of all you've done to me will leave me aching for dizzying, increasing madness, as I am. It's a bit restrictive... But you know me, Hades. I derive pleasure in ways beyond touch.
[With a kiss to his jaw, Mettaton recalls how good at pulling Mettaton under Emet-Selch had been even when they first started going to bed together. They were effective on each other, and Mettaton shivered to think of how much he just loved Emet-Selch, and found their combining attractive.]
[Which counted as ownership, though his haughtiness over it is half-hearted. He did love it, and loved besides what it meant to Mettaton to have it. Even if it stayed permanently limited like this, he would love it and restore it any time anything happened to damage him (which would hopefully be infrequent).
There weren't any convenient mirrors in sight, so it's only when he feels the faint graze of claws, the suggestion of fur against skin, that he realizes that he'd changed. Twisting his neck a little, he catches the familiar long ears atop his husband's head, before settling back, into those nuzzles.]
Do those changes add to what you can feel? I don't want to have to become a wolf again to get you to notice me.
[He mutters, remembering how Mettaton had cried out when he'd bitten him. Even if he couldn't remember what he'd said, some sounds didn't require translation.
But he knew that touch wasn't the sole component in their effectiveness on each other. (Or taste, or scent...) Yet he'd been spoiled by it, and though their first times together in bed hadn't included any ability to shapeshift, they had included heightened sensitivity on the puca's part. And... they hadn't known any better. They'd still been exploring one another, deepening their investment by degrees.
And even then they'd ached for more.
Turning his head slightly into that kiss, he tries to defer that sense of being disheartened already. He wasn't even the one lacking sensation... but he was the one aspected to negativity. Holding back a sigh, trying to focus on the elevation of his pulse, the firmness of his own cock, the interest in his body for the other man. His love for his company.]
[Delivered a bit flatly, as Emet-Selch's enthusiasm is evident. But Mettaton understood the ache, and he presses his cheek to Emet-Selch's shoulders for the moment. In answer to his question, though, Mettaton attempts to squirm closer. His presses impossibly flush to his body, testing himself for sensation, but finding it hard to tell how he'd respond to pain. Pain, the thing he found most intense of all... But he even liked that after he'd regained sensation.
Were his senses enhanced? He tries to smell. He tries to taste, kissing slow and deliberate, a soft, silicone tongue flicking out to press against the Ascian's flesh. And then...]
...If these changes do, I haven't mastered that aspect of it yet. They do not. Though they add to the real estate of places to feel from. Ears, and tail, and all.
[His rabbit-like toes curl. He could feel the bend in their movement, but they felt just as insulated as they should he supposes, given all the fur. He wondered if at some point, they'd enhance his ability to feel.
Though he does offer:] Strangely, if I shapeshift fully into a rabbit... I can feel pets quite vividly! [He smiles.] But, ha. That's not very helpful right now.
[Bunny shapeshifts were not very sexy.
There's a level of self-consciousness that settles heavily in Mettaton, though not sourced from Emet-Selch. It's himself, as he considers all they used to love in his shapeshifted body, and what they lacked now. They were capable of exploring each other and sating themselves on hypotheticals, before Mettaton had ever been capable of shapeshifting properly. But now they knew what love they had for sexual intimacy, exploring bodies conveniently equipped with points of intense arousal.
They would continue to ache for more, more acutely than ever. Mettaton closes his eye again, frustrated by all he lacked. All of the need he felt, impotent. Nails dig into Emet-Selch's chest on reflex, feeling trapped.
But he had Emet-Selch. He had his body. Mettaton breathes him in, imagines his warmth; he feels the firmness and softness of skin alike, swallowing while he drowns himself in the softness of pliant skin beneath his fingertips. Shuddering slightly, he finds his hands wandering lower, prodding his abdomen in a state of both fond fascination, and even envy.]
Even so... With all I am, and with all you are. I will show you my love for you, and reflect it in your body, as well as my own.
[He can only snort, shaking his head at Mettaton's reply. He knew he wasn't offering the usual intensity the idol could usually draw out from him without even trying. Interest was there, wanting was there, but it was hard to imagine being consumed by it, no matter how close Mettaton squirmed to him, against him.
And then those rabbit senses were tested. Emet-Selch waits for the verdict, without daring to hope that more would amount from this beyond the sensation of being kissed. And the touches were nice, pleasing and intimate... but he sighs anyway at the expected conclusion. Though he holds back from pointing out that having more places to touch didn't matter if Mettaton couldn't feel anything from them, it doesn't keep the disappointed tone from him.]
'Tis a familiar look, if nothing else.
[A full rabbit shapeshift... no. He might appreciate holding Mettaton like that at another point, but it was not sexy. Even the mention of it deflates him a little; was that really the best hope his lover had to feel anything? As a literal animal?
Claws dig into him, and Emet-Selch bites a sound back, not wanting to make things worse, but equally not wanting to pretend that he was content with what they had left to them. Without even their Bond, their souls and moods connected, they couldn't blend that way either- and no matter how close Mettaton pressed to him, they remained more distant than ever. Separate, in a way he didn't know how to reach past.
...The Bond really had been something of a crutch, when it came to expressing himself. Like this, he felt muted in a different way, even as he feels Mettaton shudder against his back, and he didn't know how or what to reassure him with. He takes a breath.]
It's fine. We'll manage.
[It's not enthusiasm, but it's a little better. A wanting to try, even if it made all the aches worse. And Mettaton's hands did feel good on him, claws and all, especially when they trail to his abdomen.]
You can... move lower than that.
[Voice lowering to a murmur, he pushes himself back against Mettaton's body, as if in an insistence to being held tighter, and his legs spread slightly.]
[Part of the pleasure they drew from their combinings as of late had pivoted heavily over how Mettaton was feeling about it, with his acquired ability to sense and feel. Even if he weren't being directly touched, the threat—or more accurately, the treat—of it loomed, as they knew that if he had Emet-Selch bound to his whims, set before him for touch and enjoyment... Even if he were the one groping and handling the mage, the monster would have his own display of arousal to show for it. He would press his cock against the smaller of the two, and they'd feel sparks fly as they enjoyed the heavy presence that needed tending. Emet-Selch had often put his own arousal in as an afterthought in comparison—and that was something fine by them.
It hurt, to feel his lover's interest faded. That his body failed at something, and there was no peacocking he could do to make up for that sheer lack. But Mettaton still felt himself worth arousal, for all he is, and his frustration exists alongside desire. Even without the anatomy of it, Mettaton desires Emet-Selch, after it all. He truly wanted his intimacy, his control, his love and his vulnerability. He wanted everything Emet-Selch was, and wanted Emet-Selch to treat him to the same deliberation he ever had.
Emet-Selch's words do reach Mettaton. He smiles; he presses his lips to his shoulder, and gives him a gentle nuzzle. He could tell that those simple words conveyed more than met the eye, a desire to hold his heart and reassure him.]
We will. ...Thank you.
[Earnestly, he speaks, soft and low. He even feels tension drain from him just through his own gratitude expressed—and in reflecting over his own warmth, it takes him off-guard as he feels Emet-Selch push back, his thighs pushing against Mettaton's as he spreads his legs encouragingly.
Mettaton exhales, eager and focused. He can't help himself as he presses ever tighter to Emet-Selch's body, winding arms squeezing his victim in his excitement for the presentation of Emet-Selch's body. His fingers drift low, claws a gentle scratch as he charts a path lower upon request.]
Hades...
[It's awe and want that tinges his voice, deep and tense. His ears are sprung, though they lean for the man in front of him, if at an akimbo splay. Emet-Selch's waistband remains an obstacle, his pants still there—but that doesn't stop Mettaton as he greedily makes for the front of his pants, immediately palming the prominence to be found between thighs.
Wracked with a bout of shudders, Mettaton exhales, covetous and hungry.]
Ah... You. You never fail to impress... I wouldn't have your response to me any other way.
[He couldn't help but be flattered just at the way Emet-Selch reacted to his presence, and all of the history they had behind them. Even when they'd first taken to intimacy, even when they stood together in a kissing booth... he remembers the grief in parting then, and how he just knew Emet-Selch was aroused. Any time he knew, it never failed to spark delight and desire in him. Fingers dance along the firm line trapped under fabric, rolling in a gentle pinch over the fullness of the tip.]
[Mettaton was certainly worth his arousal. He knew the other man could inspire it without even touching him, that the right look might suffice. Conversation, certainly, as both voice and specific content were an effective tease. And though he knew he was biased, Mettaton was an attractive man besides. Moreover, he loved him.
And still, a part of that arousal was the knowledge and memory of how touch would follow, that the robot took his own pleasure from seeing him hard as well. If he was wanting, it was difficult to imagine Mettaton turning him away.
All of that was true. And with the way Mettaton pressed to him now, with the way he spoke, Emet-Selch knew he was still desired too. Nudging his head against the other man's as best he could, it was a wordless request for closeness. The splay of his legs was a welcoming gesture too, even though they were still clothed.
...Even so. Even so, Emet-Selch knew he wasn't as drawn in as he should be, when Mettaton handled his body. There were limits now that he couldn't escape thinking about. The robot could get him off with ease, but... that was it.
But his breath takes on a shuddered note all the same, a whisper of Mettaton's name, as his body certainly knew what to do when he was being touched by him. Not as directly as it might like, but with the sort of tease that could be made good on. Fabric could be parted, removed entirely, and the strength of his reaction made explicitly visible. A shameless display he'd ever enjoyed pressing to Mettaton's body in an appeal for attention or appreciation- or just friction.
(And so often too did he go relatively neglected- brought to pleasure and relief both through some application of Mettaton's own erection. Through Mettaton's climax, he was lured to his own- when permitted. And even when he was allowed to come first, it was often to enhance the robot's own release, which of course enhanced his own....
Tantalizing imagery. Memories. If ones he tries to not dwell on too closely, in favor of the expert, familiar way he could watch Mettaton handle him now, along a length that filled for him.)]
You never fail to inspire. Too much so, at times...
[It's not a real grumble, but the show of one. From their first (technically second) kiss, and the interest that came with it, they'd both been aroused that afternoon, and so suddenly. But they maintained decency (beyond whatever they lost from making out behind a kissing booth), even as the prospect of taking to each other right then had been... attractive.
Just as he was attracted now to what they were doing- and with far more experience together behind them. Knowledgeably touched, rather than curiously, though they'd never known hesitation once they'd begun. His own fingers grip at the side of the bed, and his thighs tense with the desire to press up, to roll his hips into Mettaton's hand. But he didn't want to move away from his body either.]
[Escapism is Mettaton's forte. He knew it was a difficult order, given that the escape would be from recalling that he is a robot who natively possessed no sexual organs with which to penetrate Emet-Selch with, but he would show him how much he wanted him without. How much of him he'd take, at that, greedily consuming Emet-Selch and his body, a gateway to his heart.
The mage responds to the monster readily, practiced and primed. Memories and dreams strike them both, as the former-puca recalls the way that Emet-Selch could be made to fill out for him, even before he'd shapeshifted anything concrete to busy himself with. Mettaton sighs, pressing his hand firmly and fully to trap his cock against his body, stuck between clothes and hand and with pressure applied. There was so much they loved to do with a point of pleasure like this—and Mettaton focuses on all he could do to Emet-Selch, to deprive and overwhelm, to restrain or demand.
Needy, Emet-Selch's hips jerk, and Mettaton hums an ascending note of interest at his show. He can't help but chuckle lowly at the accusation that he hears and knows isn't deeply felt, insofar as its delivery. Past fabric, he continues to appreciate his firm and filling arousal, working from pinching the tip to groping him down toward his root with a possessive, commanding confidence. Mettaton viewed Emet-Selch's body as his own, and this was his cock to touch and treat, to deny and to please.]
But I like that. To inspire dreams beyond the constraints of sense... [His voice, a soft purr, is pressed to the side of Emet-Selch's neck, where he brushes soft, silicone lips.] And to captivate you, and draw you into my own dreams. I'd argue it, Hades... that you're a bit of an inspiration yourself, love.
[An inspiration to Mettaton specifically, whether it was the solid basis of his shapeshifts, or the desire to reach for more and more. He sighs, working his way down, down, fingers pinching the shape of his cock beneath fabric, until he bites at his lower lip and fully grips him. His fingers slide between thighs, the motion to grab both his balls and cock in a gesture of ownership, all before sighing warmly against skin.
He remembers the way he'd felt back then, when he was first exploring Emet-Selch's body. And somehow... somehow, it even paled to this kind of intensity, Mettaton realizes with a start. The ache he feels is somehow acute, even without muscles, without veins. He gasps, fingers squeezing and handling his balls as his palm is nudged firmly against his root, and Mettaton lets him go only so that his hand can quickly chart a path straight to his waistband. It was a sort of psychological ache, something that set his body to heating, electricity to course fast in his body—and even behind Emet-Selch, the robot shifts with pent-up need to move.
That gasp is released in a sigh that is utter heat. Not burning nor scalding, but hot air, void of damp. He could feel Emet-Selch keep from thrusting, and as Mettaton takes to the fastening of his trousers with a deft hand, he gives Emet-Selch a brief nip to the side of his neck.]
Mm. Stay still for me, now. I want to appraise what I've done to you... since you think it too much.
[And even here, even though he was sorely lacking a crucial part to their passion play... Mettaton is too focused on their collective arousal to dwell on it right now.]
If you weren't inspired, I'd think you weren't paying me close enough attention.
[Smoothly arrogant, but emotionally touched all the same, he felt an appreciation for all that they did inspire in each other. Though he knew Mettaton's consideration of his body had both its practical and personal aspects, the addiction to their combining was something they'd fostered together. It was inescapable, which was its own problem.
Was it even possible to escape from past escapes? Emet-Selch didn't know, but his swift pulse and filling cock spoke of a reason to try. Though he doubted his own ability to be pulled under completely, for Mettaton to take him to a depth that could briefly sate him- he thought it likely that it would feel good, anyway. Tempering expectations, but appreciating being touched at all- he could do that much.
The robot's fingers were a convincing argument in themselves, and he shivers as the attention to his tip turns to a groping for his girth. Even through fabric, it was nicely possessive, the way Mettaton grabbed for both balls and shaft. And he responds with a soft groan, escaping with an exhale of breath. Not as warm as the robot behind him, but heated all the same, and a touch damp as an organic entity would be. For all that it was forgiving material, it was beginning to feel quite constrictive, with the way Mettaton was grasping him, with as hard as he was getting.
Or he was just eager to be touched directly. Which is why he can't complain too far, when Mettaton abandons that hold in favor of slipping to the fastenings, anticipation warming him through. The nip to his neck has him tilting his head in offering, a soft gasp preceding his reply.]
A call to remain still... you do know how to appeal to me.
[A touch wry. Even if Mettaton was also good at giving him reasons to move, for all that he ever remained not as inclined in that direction as the robot. But for the point of appraising, of attention- yes. He could remain as still as desired. How obedient he felt otherwise was yet to be decided.]
[Mettaton smiles, simple and pleased, for he does pay Emet-Selch close attention. He kisses over his shoulder, open-mouthed and-- if failing in the dampness, it's full and passionate, and soft thanks to his lack of saliva. That's what follows his nip, as though in gratitude for Emet-Selch's agreement: he would still, because it was in line with what he wanted. Not an act of obedience. Mettaton could read between the lines.
Because even wound up, bound and tied, Emet-Selch would be stubborn and defiant. Mettaton smiles wider- almost maddened, hungered. The quickness of his fingers stumble, fumbling to free what lies beneath cloth, and the robot coaxes his pants to part for him with another gentle nibble of the Ascian's neck.]
Hades... [Is all he finds himself saying, voice a low purr. For the moment, he's transfixed on his prize—and Mettaton lifts his head so that he's on alert, ears leaning far enough that they're surely making their way into Emet-Selch's vision. Clawed fingertips push deep between folds, and the puca-like robot fondles his mate, gasping softly at the sensation of his filled, filling erection, pushing at restraint of fabric. And now, at the grip of his hand.
With a soft groan, Mettaton could sympathetically feel the rigidity as though it were his own. He doesn't even need to close his eyes, wrapping fingertips around Emet-Selch's root as he pushes and parts fabric further to properly free his cock with a roll of his wrist, fighting his trousers to pull free his erection. And once free, Mettaton only barely manages to lift his hand from skin, just to give him a look, to appraise him as he'd promised.]
How you always manage to be a delightful presentation, I'll never know. [Mettaton sighs, stroking a finger along his length, the underside of the root all the way up until he gives the tip a firm press, causing him to bob.] If you want more things to do for me... Won't you lay back on the bed, darling? I want to... better appreciate you.
[Better appreciate, punctuated with another nip to his shoulder, ardent yet gentle. In spite of his condition, Mettaton's mind races with all he wanted to do, whether he could manage it in his current state or not. He wanted to lay him down, to spread his legs, to stuff his own cock between his thighs and describe how good he looked full him and erect; he wanted to lay him down and kiss him from neck to ankles, to leave him bitten and sensitive. He wanted to straddle his hips and push their cocks together, to grip them both until they oozed, slick and sticky and perfect to jerk off in tandem... Mettaton shivers with a sigh, pressing bodily against Emet-Selch.
But he similarly tugs at him, encouraging him to climb deeper onto the mattress. He would be more than supportive in helping him into place. He smirks against his neck, lips grazing along skin until he's just beneath his ear, able to nip at his earring.]
And by appreciate... I want the full spread of your body, Hades.
[His breath catches, hips twitching against the bed at the first sensation of fingers reaching his cock, in touching him directly. Emet-Selch could tell Mettaton was no less taken by this contact, an appeal they were drawn to together. If there was any filling left to be done, watching and feeling his lover fondle him underneath fabric was enough to do it. And then he was free, exposed to the air, and to sight, an appropriately rigid vision for them both. The brief relief of no longer being trapped gave way almost immediately to a sharper pang of want, as they admired his fullness together.
Even though it was for the sake of observation, which in itself he enjoyed, he can't quite stifle the small protesting sound when Mettaton unhands his erection, for even a moment.]
If we're to talk of presentation, I've always found your hand to be an appropriate accessory.
[A hint, delivered. Though it was more than his hand that appealed, as the sight of his cock pressed to any part of Mettaton's body was an attractive one. Framed between his thighs, taken into his mouth, pressed firm and thick against Mettaton's own cock, where they could stroke each other off into a sticky mess- they were only a few of the ways he loved to see himself.
But he's provided a tease of a touch, his cock made to wobble in the open air, and given another simple task.]
--Once more, you appeal to my expertise.
[It was often enough that he ended upon his back, in bed... but he wasn't inclined to argue over this request either, aligned to his own desires and nature as it was. A tug deeper onto their modest bed is accepted, though there's a bit of wriggling involved to make sure that his pants didn't come with him. With all fabric slid off to gather unceremoniously on the floor, Emet-Selch shifts the small distance into the center of the bed, and lays down, head aligned with their pillows.
Shivering a little from being so uncovered, the air feeling far cooler than the heat of his body, the warmth of arousal, he glances down at himself, his erection even more of a sight this way, swollen and gently curved. Though his body had a few bruises left, healing sores and scrapes, they were all a result of wolfhood rather than loving ardor.
Exhaling a shaking breath, his gaze soon returned to Mettaton. Unlike the robot, he wasn't so naturally inclined towards posing, or conscious display, but the mage was comfortable, at ease with his casual sprawl, legs slightly parted. A languid wave towards himself completes the appeal(?).]
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There was no hint of fur in his lover's scent, nothing of whatever attribute being a puca had once added to him. But Mettaton was still recognizably himself, just as his form was familiar, even though it was also no longer distorted by a rabbit's features. (Emet-Selch tried not to think about how Mettaton wouldn't be able to smell him, nor scent him as he once had. Nor would he be able to taste him... or anything else.
Why would something so base and primitive matter? And yet he missed it, selfishly.)
He still didn't see what exactly he'd done to be worthy of gratitude, considering that all he'd done is ask the big rock for help, because he couldn't do anything himself. His magic and knowledge had been useless, non-existent. So he shakes his head at Mettaton's insistence on thanking him- and sighs more heavily at the idea of not being suspicious over their "good" "fortune".]
You can put any distrust wherever you'd like. I'll keep mine right where it is. Nor do I plan on going into debt, cosmic or otherwise, no matter how well-oiled you feel.
[Because all that just sounded like an excuse for Mettaton to indulge in whatever sort of extravagant living he could wish or buy on credit. And he didn't want to be dragged into the afterlife of financial ruin with him.
But he can't manage to look too dubious when Mettaton leans his head back, and their eyes meet. Sentiment was still too strong, and he felt it keenly. Gaze lowering, eyes nearly closing again when their foreheads brush together, his voice lowers again to match the intimacy.]
Though 'twas far briefer of a time, I... [Did much the same. Longed for, dreamed. Waited. Longed more. Swallowing back a low, unhappy noise, he shakes his head, just a little.] I've managed, one way or another.
[So not terribly well.]
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Emet-Selch's sorrow over his loneliness is felt, and Mettaton continues to rub his lower back with a pitiful sound. Their eyes are matched, but Mettaton disturbs the connection by pressing forward and meeting lips instead. Taking Emet-Selch's lovingly between his own, it's a lingering, warm kiss. Even if he lacked saliva, it was made up for by the softness of silicone—and Mettaton could feel the tenderness of Emet-Selch's lips, if not his warmth. He craved him more and more as every second passed, but this... This felt sublime.
He wondered how long it would take for his desire for him to overwhelm him, to the point of frustration. It was something to talk to Emet-Selch about at some point. Inevitably, he'd have to address all that he lacked—which would have never been a problem or a point of conversation, had he never been granted it in the first place. Mettaton is perfect just the way he is, he would agree to the claim.
But he wanted more. Ravenously, he wanted more.
His heated desire is a conveyance through a tender, somber kiss, gentle but full and with the edge of heat both metaphorical, and physical- as MTT's internal components didn't stop generating heat, and that heat could escape from past his lips. Nuzzling noses, Mettaton even stoops in to press his cheek against Emet-Selch's in something of a scenting gesture of all things. You could take the Puca from Mettaton, but now that he's been one, there were certain habits he'd developed that he, too, found congenial and hard to break. ...In a way, maybe Emet-Selch was being scented, if a cherry-scented robot was scent enough.]
... Thank you, for managing for as long as you did, darling. But no longer! [He smiles wide and bright.] We have each other once again, and doing well, at that. That is...
[Drawing back slightly, Mettaton fixes Emet-Selch with a more analytical look.] How are your injuries doing, Hades? I see your face has improved... a bit. Ah...
[His hand winds up Emet-Selch's body until digits can prod gently at healing welts, which have become more like reddened flesh. Still, there were more injuries than that—and MTT's hand reflexively moves to his heart next.]
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A kiss between them was inevitable, and Emet-Selch leans to meet it with the smallest sound that's quickly consumed by the security of their lips together.
He knew, of course, of Mettaton's lack of saliva. He'd kissed him before without it, and even if that made things a bit dryer between them than usual- the softness was just as he remembered. And the warmth with it, both features that felt entirely alive to him, even though they were synthetic in their most literal sense.
And it was tempting to deepen it, to offer all the breath he had to give- more than tempting, no matter how serious the kiss, and his heart speeds from the thought of how much he wanted. But he doesn't protest when it's paused, when Mettaton nudges their noses together, when he even rubs his cheek with his own, in a gesture that felt so familiar that it left him briefly stricken. Even if Mettaton lacked the glands and the pheromones of a puca, surely something of him would rub off all the same....
And it was sweetly affectionate besides. Gathering himself anew as Mettaton speaks, he nods to him.]
A bit sore... [He confesses, but it was an honest assessment. Neither elevated for the sake of complaint, nor downplayed because it was genuinely unpleasant. The inspection of his face through sight and touch goes without flinching or tension, though the welts themselves were still tender. But not raw, the redness of healing flesh rather than inflamed with infection.] I think natural healing still outpaces what I can do with magic....
[That bit was more of a grumble, but less frustrated than it could've been. And he goes still as Mettaton's winding grip moves onward, before pressing deliberately into his touch.]
--That part, is likely sorest of all.
[Metaphorically and literally. But literally too, as while even cushioned by fabric, he felt a distinct ache when Mettaton's hand snakes around to touch his heart. The bruises of injury there were still dark, and the arrow-wound notable, if closed over by healing skin. It would almost certainly scar.]
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A low, soft growl- a brief thing, really. It's a sign of Mettaton's willingness to steal his breath. But... he wanted to address something else. So they break apart, just far enough to converse. Though he's not a Puca, enough of being one has become a part of him. It doesn't take a thought for him to want to scent Emet-Selch, nor does growling seem foreign when claiming his husband. He could easily envision himself working from his neck down to his shoulders, his chest, over his soft abdomen and lower still.....
But what reaches his chest instead is his own hand, though the touch is firm as much as it is tender. He offers Emet-Selch a warm, soft smile. Would Emet-Selch even practice his healing talents while he had them?
The mage's stillness is followed by a press, and Mettaton exhales heat. That smile sobers slightly, as the robot stoops forward to press a kiss to the base of Emet-Selch's neck. ...For once, tall ears do not press or slap against his face in the process, and though it had never been something he thought about before, he notices its absence. Even still, kissing him wasn't the part that felt off.]
And with sore as the improvement, I take it... How I wish I could speed your recovery. [He says this at first close to his neck, as he pulls back. His fingers gently rub against Emet-Selch's chest, a tender touch followed by the press of his palm.] I'd like to see it for myself.
[Mettaton was visual, just as much as he was tactile. He wanted to see Emet-Selch's chest, the wound that came from ending a senseless night of agonizing loneliness and savagery. He kisses at his jaw, holding Emet-Selch still tight to his body, and knew even without seeing it that it would scar. One way or another, it would scar. ...Often, these scars ended up right over Emet-Selch's heart, he thinks with a small, soft smile.
Transfixed momentarily by Emet-Selch's eyes, Mettaton's lips part with no sound to pair it.]
Will you come with me, darling? We've barely had a moment just to ourselves.
[Starting strong with violence and terror, then moving along to injury and recovery. Then more of it... and now, they were something resembling stability. Emet-Selch was the only one sore, and that was close to normalcy.]
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But they speak instead, something Emet-Selch couldn't do when his lips were covered. And his heart stirs more quickly still, when Mettaton dips briefly to his neck, an expanse the mage offers to him freely, affected easily by the kiss (though noticing too, the lack of long ears in his face, leaning for him and smacking him as they often did... but that was just how it was now, unless Mettaton deliberately shapeshifted them back).]
Will your presence not suffice for a balm? You're always telling me of your willingness to distract me from my pains....
[A low-voiced murmur, close to his face. And for all that Emet-Selch wanted to curl back to his body, he waits for that too, as he feels his lover's hand between them, against the fabric over his heart, and looks back up to meet his gaze. Returns one kiss with another, at the edge of Mettaton's lips, tempering the want to linger there, to coax him into more.
His heart so often ended up scarred. Emet-Selch realizes it too, and isn't sure what to think about it. If there was any way to think about it at all, that it wasn't just... what it was. A natural place to find wounded.
And one that he would willingly show him. Wordlessly, he nods, caught up just as easily in Mettaton's violet eye. Though he'd been used to the gold, this was something he was drawn to no less, a look he could drown in with no hope of coming up for air. And no desire to.
There had been little time to spend together properly, not with one or the other of them being out of commission, unconscious, or insane. This was as good as it might be- as it was true enough that Emet-Selch was frequently sore anyway (if not generally from the aftermath of having been electrocuted and shot).
It wasn't with the same stumbling heat that drove them now, the breathless passion that barely managed to reach a bed, with their legs tangled and bodies aching. But it was with a kind of passion nonetheless, an insistence, for closeness, for intimacy. And though it was Mettaton's suggestion, he pulls back to answer it, to step towards the bedroom- though without his own hands leaving the robot's body entirely, trailing instead to his sides, his hips.]
I'll show you anything you want. We've the time for it now.
[Time and place and sanity. The reassurance that they were together, he wanted to feel it in his touch.]
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But for now, he rocks his hip; he presses himself into Emet-Selch's touch, a sway to his step that was seductive and deliberate in. He nearly wavers, affected. (Gods, it was insanity, to be deprived of vivid and mind-numbing sensation. Then, to go a month without the feeling of touch... Mettaton knew without labelling it explicitly that he was addicted, and his body as it is registered sensation dully compared to a robotic Puca. He thinks this without words, a buzzing in the back of his head.) He wanted to be the balm that soothed, the distraction Emet-Selch coveted to make the pain drain into pleasure- to override it with sensation generated by himself, and to leave him properly loved. And with that feeling, Mettaton wobbles, overcome.
It's a glamorously graceful wobble, though. A tip of his head that exposes neck; the tease of his thighs pressing together mid-step, paired with a heated exhale. Mettaton wraps his arm affectionately around Emet-Selch in return, kissing the side of his head in a fleeting peck of lips.]
Show me... and I'll whip up a remedy to soothe your aches, darling.
[Another small smile curves upon his lips and colors his tone. They had time; this was a moment all their own, the world outside peaceful, the rain starting to drizzle gently upon the cottage roof. It was homey; it was safe, because Emet-Selch was here.
Mettaton never thought he'd appreciate safety as much as he does now that he has Emet-Selch in his life. Safety in ways that exceed being protected. It was the safety of intimate company, in a world where he gave himself in the form of an object of fantasy, an indulgence to be shared. Emet-Selch was where he was wholly himself, including every part others wouldn't be permitted to handle.
Toward the bedroom their gradual pace takes them, steady as the pitter-patter of rain tapping lightly the cobblestone pathway outside the concealing fabric of plain curtains. This bedroom didn't have Mettaton's flair, not yet; it had some belongings, a torn robe here or a wool sweater there, complete with a damaged robotic arm- but it hadn't been properly taken apart. A lack of resources is to blame for sure. But at least in its middle is a proper, if modest, bed, suited for the two of them to fit.
Even though it's a home all their own, Mettaton closes the door behind them. His arm trails low against the small of Emet-Selch's back, toying with fabric, the itch to strip him something he has patience for because he knew he'd have him exposed soon enough. But his gaze is warm and pointed, watching the Ascian at his side hungrily. He spares him a smile before glancing around their accomodations.]
... The last time you and I stayed in something so spartan, it was a room hardly yours, back in your shared abode in Aefenglom. That, or... some of what we enjoyed in Nippon. Though that was nicer. I didn't have to barter for running water there. [He snorts, leaning in to give Emet-Selch's temple a kiss.]
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He wondered over how much his lover could feel, even as he plainly reacted to having his hands on his body. He knew of the senses that would be missing entirely... but touch. How much did Mettaton have as a corporealized ghost, and how much had being a puca given him?
But the mage hums a small sound, an assent to Mettaton's idea of remedy- and a sign of small pleasure to his kiss. And they make the short distance to their bedroom, as rain begins to beat down on the roof somewhere above. An encouragement to remain indoors for a time; a pleasant ambient noise to further block out the rest of the world. This was all the safety they could manage; this was all that was needed, for a little while.
Their accommodations were modest, to be polite. Far moreso than what they were used to. Not terrible in structure, if small, a base for more to be added... so long as they could somehow obtain the more from somewhere.]
Both were somewhat more well-equipped. [He sighs to follow Mettaton's snort. Not only the worlds, but they themselves were made lesser here. Had he his powers, it wouldn't matter if their residence were simple, as he could create anything they lacked. Leaning in, he presses a kiss of his own to Mettaton's neck.] Thank you for bartering all the same, for luxuries you barely need.
[Running water wasn't quite as useful to a robot. And electricity, with charging apparently not an issue anymore (a small mercy), in a similar extraneous position. But organic bodies needed water, and benefited from being able to cook their food.
But they both needed more than that, things outside of a roof above them, or a bed underneath them, but which benefited from both. Where Mettaton barely resists stripping him, Emet-Selch barely resists dragging him tight to his body again, in kissing him hard. Instead he slips back to the bed, even if it meant pulling away from his arm, to sit down at the side of it, facing him.
Leaning over to quickly unfasten and remove his shoes, in preparation for getting into bed properly, he sighs another time.]
Once more, we start over from nothing.
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Even if, on that particular evening, Emet-Selch was possessed by fits of unconsciousness. It was the more unfortunate part of the time, but Mettaton regarded it fondly all the same.
The two lovers found themselves here, an island in space and time and supposedly locked in the realm of dreams. But they were together, and Mettaton couldn't be more thankful.
With a small smile, he answers Emet-Selch's gratitude with a small nod, and a bend to press another whisper of a kiss against the corner of Emet-Selch's lips. Need is barely contained, and teased in the brush of lips, as the robot sighs a push of heat.]
We've already begun. We're here. Together, you... you and I.
[Emet-Selch may be pulling away, removing his shoes (which seemed much easier than his boots ever had, these charming little shoes, simple in design), in answer to the restraint they barely possessed. But Mettaton responds to their heat all the same, a tension in his voice of eager, tight desire, the sort that would inflict leaning rabbit ears if he possessed them. Lips parted, he ogles Emet-Selch's figure in the meantime without a shred of shame. Why should he have that, when he was enjoying the sight of his husband?
Heels click upon weathered wooden floorboards in Mettaton's advance, and his fingertips graze along the bed. He'd so recently awoken here that he wondered if it would be warm where he'd been... And he felt anything but groggy. As soon as the mage has his shoes removed, Mettaton slinks onto the bed knees-first, hands reaching to slip 'round his waist in a gentle hold.]
We'll make this place our own retreat. And as I ever have... I will watch out for you, Hades-darling. [He pecks the side of Emet-Selch's head.] Just as I know you always will, me.
[There were no dangers to keep track of for now. All they had was the promise of each other's bodies, and Mettaton licks his lips as he pines for the warm figure beneath clothing that he could prod and touch. His digits slip underneath, coaxing Emet-Selch closer, with fewer articles of clothing preferred. His fingers pick at fabric near Emet-Selch's hips.
He smiles at him, sunny and warm.]
And... I'm here for you, dearest. We'll take care of our desires. One by one.
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Shamelessly, they gaze upon each other. There had never been any lack of hesitation there, nor self-consciousness. And no reason for it to start, when need was only ever tempered for the sake of something more. Mettaton slips onto the bed with all the grace he was familiar with, and no less affected by- as there was no coaxing required for the mage to lean towards him, to seek out his arms and body.
Interest was certainly alight, between them. And distraction with it; already, Emet-Selch was less conscious of his various less-pleasant aches and sores. And if he wasn't as well-rested as Mettaton, he was about as awake as he ever was, all his consciousness focused on the man beside him.
There were no dangers, for now, and no telling when the next crisis would arise. For right now they were together, and that was all they ever seemed to have. Only the present, for as long as it managed to last.]
Then... stay with me, this time.
[The bed underneath might very well have some remnant of robotic-heat left on its covers. Clothed as he was, Emet-Selch couldn't tell, but there was an easy solution to that problem. The plucking at the fabric at his hips could easily transition to a removal of it all. And while he wasn't impatient for his greater touch, there was no hiding that he dearly wanted it.]
You can't take care of anything if you're not here. [His voice is quiet, lifting a hand to cup the side of his husband's face- no longer rent by anyone's claws.] But I don't think we'll ever catch up, like this.
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Emet-Selch is on the bed and Mettaton is on his knees, encircling the smaller man in an embrace. Interest was electricity, and the two of them were equally charged, a contagion that intensified as it bounced between them, as they infected each other over and again. Crises seemed to follow them... but Mettaton lived in this moment where there was none, and Emet-Selch was miraculously drawn in with him.
The hand pressed his cheek is leaned into with a curtaining of lashes, a sweet smile pulling the corner of his lips. His face was restored, and the sensation of Emet-Selch's hand there is something he cherishes with his eye closed. With a hum, he cracks open his eye, but only slightly.
He doesn't think they'll catch up like this. His eyebrow lifts; his pupil runs down Emet-Selch's clothes, where his own fingers are.]
How do you mean? We won't catch up...
[He runs over the statement in his head as he scoots closer, straddling Emet-Selch from behind him with knees on either side of his thighs. And from there, Mettaton maintains as much contact as he can with the hand against his cheek as he presses his hands fully against bare skin. Starting from his hips, Mettaton lifts Emet-Selch's clothes off, making deft but desirous work of both shucking fabric, and giving Emet-Selch a good feel-up. Up and over his head comes flowing fabric, baring Emet-Selch's torso to the air. Contentedly, he sighs.]
Hmm... If you mean to say that we'll never truly conquer the full of our desires, yes. We won't. [He leans in, kissing the back of Emet-Selch's neck as he sidles his entire body flush to Emet-Selch's.] But that's because you keep encouraging more and more in me.
[... And there would be regrettable desires more that would go un-cared for. Mettaton tries not to think about his lacking body for the moment. Someday... someday, he would be in possession of an anatomy, of powers that suited him—and enabled him the same sexual indulgence they'd once enjoyed. He holds fast to the confidence that he still wants Emet-Selch carnally; that Emet-Selch had always been able to drive him mad.]
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Beyond the fresh scarring above his heart, there's the sign of lesser injuries on the mage's body. Bruises that were turning towards the greenish-yellow were scattered across him, along with patches of scabbing. Places where fur had grown, and that he'd torn out. None of it was serious, but it added a bit of soreness to him.
Which he's not thinking of too clearly when Mettaton was kissing his neck, when he could feel his body against skin, a sensation he stretches into with a small sound.]
I would do more than encourage. More and more that....
[--would they even be able to fulfill? Emet-Selch can't help but recall that unfortunate aspect of their combination currently. It wouldn't be for the first time, but for far longer than otherwise, Mettaton had been more than able to match him in the ability to demonstrate arousal. He looks down towards the bed, even as he rests against his body.]
You'll have to learn to shapeshift properly. Soon.
[Mettaton wouldn't be the only one frustrated, at this rate. Though he would admit that the former-puca would have it worse, in not having a cock at all... he wouldn't pretend otherwise that so much of his own pleasure was tied up in the robot's. Not only when it came with the sensation of being filled by him, but just being in the company of his aroused state was enticing.
Though Emet-Selch was already getting hard, a firming line notable within his trousers, he tried to temper his expectations. Which mostly led to a dampening of them, in actuality, and his exhale is as sad as it is interested.]
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He doesn't frown, but his eye meets the same spot as Emet-Selch's, without knowing it. He rests his cheek against the back of his neck, white strands of hair meeting jet black. Wrapping his arms totally around Emet-Selch's waist, his hands crawl up his front, prodding hungrily at skin. Where he stops is at his chest: Mettaton brushes his fingertips over the Ascian's nipples, before settling with each palm over his chest. Grabbin his plentiful bosom. Nice.
They'd both end up frustrated, if Mettaton weren't capable of manifesting a hard erection that hurled him toward desperation. He knew they both thrived on that. It felt like a treat to be granted this sort of explicit demonstration and all of the relief it brought with it, and even those veins in his very body felt that relief in release. It felt like it should've been a part of him.
A sort of bodily dysphoria settles in over Mettaton, and he lets it rather than banishing it. After all, this was the safest place to feel the entire breadth of his feelings. To think, that the robotic body of his dreams lacked something so crucial, overlooked... And he hadn't even asked Alphys to make good on some of these more practical upgrades! It's not as though they haven't talked about it before, but after making it to the Surface, Mettaton either had no time, or... he was a Puca. She would've done it, too. Something something about not making a fuckable robot...
He hums. Mettaton handles Emet-Selch's chest, feeling for the suppleness of muscle and flesh. It felt nice. He wondered if he could be a human like some of the other robots he'd met here.]
Too true, darling. Too true. [A breath of a laugh couples his lament.] It's maddening, going back. I can't begin to describe it to anyone else, what I've lost... Nor would I like to give up my body.
[He chews on his lip, lifting his head from the back of Emet-Selch's neck. One of his hands daringly, but carefully, roams over Emet-Selch's chest blindly, trying to find the damage done before he sees it with his eyes- a sort of way to connect with their bodies deeply, where his tactile sensation's become slightly dulled. At least he had any. This body was a blessing, in that regard.]
... I did meet a robot here, who had been turned into a human. [Even as he speaks, Mettaton runs a hand over the expanse of his chest; each time a finger drifts against his nipples, he is sure to prod, to flick, to drag digits along, as his arms are warmly pressed to his sides. His voice is low and sleek.] For some reason, I was not treated to the same fate.
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It was better than no body at all. The smaller man accepted that much, was even grateful for that much, that his lover was spared the discomfort of feeling nothing, of not possessing a shape that suited how he saw himself. (And more selfishly, Emet-Selch was relieved to be able to hold him at all, something that wouldn't have been possible had he been a ghost with nothing to hide in.)
And he appreciated with it, that Mettaton was touching him now, was presumably feeling something of the skin underneath his fingers, of the tension he could inspire in his muscles. Temperature, the warmth of his body, those details would be lost, but Mettaton hadn't had much of that to start with.
So Emet-Selch manages a pleased noise, despite his discontent. An approval reflected in the way he presses back to him, assuming that Mettaton would continue handling his chest. His nipples too, react immediately to touch, hardening from even a brush of attention. And arousal comes with it, a warmth that gathered in his body, as it so often did in Mettaton's company.
Though there were multiple reasons to temper it. There was the more immediate of fingers reaching and inspecting for wounds. Gently so, and while it wasn't too uncomfortable physically, it was a reminder of what had happened that night. They'd found each other only to hurt each other- but there was nothing new about that, it was only a matter of degree.
But more reason was their conversation, this addressing what they needed to, when it came to what Mettaton had lost, in arriving here. In being an unaltered robot.
That another robot's body had changed was a surprise, and his brow furrows. Was it because Mettaton wasn't a true robot, that he'd been neglected, somehow? Even as Mettaton toys with his nipples, he couldn't get too distracted, one of his hands moving to brush against a freshly grown hand.]
...Would you have preferred to become human?
[Was this something Mettaton would wish for? Emet-Selch wasn't sure how he felt about that. It would depend entirely on whether it would be a permanent change that would somehow carry across worlds, making Mettaton no longer a monster- and unbearably mortal.]
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The love he feels for Emet-Selch is something he longed to share. Another thing lost is their Bond... but the robot feels confident that he can share that love in actions. Pressing into Emet-Selch, he makes a small noise as he nuzzles against his neck, burying his face there and breathing him in. He could just barely smell him, the scent of him occurring to Mettaton in impressions from memory...
It's there that he knows his reply.]
I already told you once before, Hades. It's an appealing thought... but after meeting you, I think my decision's different than it would've been. And besides.
[Tightening his arms against Emet-Selch's sides, the robot winds each arm around Emet-Selch's person tight, all the way until he's right back around again and gripping firmly over each pectoral. His thumbs roll gently over the firming flesh of his nipples, and Mettaton sighs fondly over their response to his attentions.]
Can a human do this...? I find my body is uniquely mine. To dip my toes in and experience what it's like to be human is one thing... and I like that. But I like myself as I am. There's a reason I corporealized with this body. This is me.
[Confidently he answers, having already dwelled on this before. If he were confronted with the option here, if it were the only way he could properly have sex with Emet-Selch... and if it were guaranteed that it wasn't his forever body, maybe. He knew he'd miss the silicone, the metal, the durability and the absurd things he could do with this body that humans could not. The feeling of organs in his chest was also still something he felt hyper-aware of sometimes... and while he knew he could adapt, he simply likes this way of being.
But the touch. The sensation. The sensuality. Organic beings promised so much... and it was a temptation too great to ignore. He wanted those things one way or another, and if there were a way to obtain them, he knew he would take it.
Pressing forward, Mettaton's sure to roll his hips, to grind his crotch against Emet-Selch's back with a sigh. He presses entirely flush, curling around him as he tightens his grip, pinching his nipples in the process. Sloppy kisses that would've been surely damp are applied along his shoulder.]
I rather like being me... and having the sensation and the equipment of a more organic being. Mind, darling. I haven't lost heart. One way or another... these are attainable goals, with the right resources. [He pecks his shoulder before lifting his head, hovering slightly over him enough that they can meet eyes.] If I can't find someone to augment my body in this more sexual direction, why... there will be a way. A more magically-inclined way.
[A wish. Emet-Selch's powers, returned to him. Mettaton knew there were ways, and he'd have to impatiently work for it.]
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Good. I would miss this body.
[Though he would adapt to whatever Mettaton had, this one, with its sturdy features capable of crushing him, with winding arms capable of constricting him- this one, he was already attached to. (If not in the literal way Mettaton was attached to it.) And he squirms, pleased to be caught, to be wrapped up, encouraging the security of his hold- and the way his nipples could be played with at the same time. Even so--]
Though your puca variant was...
[He doesn't even conclude that statement with anything but a sigh. He missed that. All the robotic benefits, plus many of the organic ones. He'd found the claws, the ears, even the fur- endearing. Pleasant to touch. And with full shapeshifting at his disposal, Mettaton could take a break from those features as wanted. Could try on a fully organic body... or at least a semi-organic erection.
Since the grinding against his back, erotic as it was, was less of a tease than it should've been, as there was nothing more there to look forward to, right now.]
We'll find some way of restoring you the pertinent details.
[Though resolute, his tone was a bit tired too, to think on all they would have to reobtain. (Their Bond he simply grieved for.) Kisses against his shoulder too weren't quite the same, though he liked the sensation anyway. It wasn't as if he missed precisely Mettaton drooling on him as he sometimes did, but he was conscious of the dryness of silicone. Soft and warm, but dry- and incapable of neither tasting nor feeling his own heat.
Which was altogether nearly as much of a downer as the lack of cock.]
Though that doesn't change the now. How much will you- can you even feel of me?
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You'd better miss it, honey! This body's as good as yours, and I expect you to love it as much as I do.
[And though it's a playful comment... there was perhaps some truth to it, as Mettaton knew Emet-Selch was fond of his form for a good many reasons. It made Mettaton more vulnerable than he would've been without a body—but thinking of himself without a body is simply abhorrent, and Emet-Selch knew that, too. It gave Mettaton so much more. It gave him clarity, confidence, and ways to interact with the world that he'd never had before.
It just wasn't equipped. And that fact is glaringly obvious between them, as between Mettaton thighs is a whole lot of nothing. His puca variant had at least brought with it the enhancement of sensation, if disturbing in its ways. The flesh and veins and organs that crept beneath the surface of silicone and metal... It would disturb any good mechanic, particularly the sorts who wanted to see no cyborgs.
Mettaton was a mess inside, even though he'd felt better and more vividly than ever. His puca variant was something to miss; to that, Mettaton hugs him tight. Against his skin, he interjects with a mutter.]
... I didn't mind it, either. All of the little things...
[... He does have that, anyway. Even if it's not quite so detailed, anatomically, and more of a magical manifestation. Mettaton partially shapeshifts into a rabbit—but it's only that much, with fur upon his hips, claws on fingertips, ears upon his head... and rabbit feet where heels once were. They'd find a way, and Mettaton nuzzles Emet-Selch deeply with an appreciative sound.]
Right now, [he starts, ears folding back;] It's about as much as I'd gained from corporealizing, dear. More than I used to have. Less than what I gained in Aefenglom. The harder the touch, the more I feel it.
[Pressure that increased also increased in sensitivity, and things outright painful felt the most intense he could get it. Mettaton sighs, thinking about the very first time he'd ever felt anything so bright that it blinded, which was... Wow. Fighting against Frisk. Unfortunate.
And now, that was about as intense as it got. Emet-Selch had introduced him to so much more, and Mettaton snorts, giving the Ascian's nipple a departing pinch before smoothing over his chest, letting the tips of claws graze along in his wake.]
I have a feeling my memory of all you've done to me will leave me aching for dizzying, increasing madness, as I am. It's a bit restrictive... But you know me, Hades. I derive pleasure in ways beyond touch.
[With a kiss to his jaw, Mettaton recalls how good at pulling Mettaton under Emet-Selch had been even when they first started going to bed together. They were effective on each other, and Mettaton shivered to think of how much he just loved Emet-Selch, and found their combining attractive.]
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[Which counted as ownership, though his haughtiness over it is half-hearted. He did love it, and loved besides what it meant to Mettaton to have it. Even if it stayed permanently limited like this, he would love it and restore it any time anything happened to damage him (which would hopefully be infrequent).
There weren't any convenient mirrors in sight, so it's only when he feels the faint graze of claws, the suggestion of fur against skin, that he realizes that he'd changed. Twisting his neck a little, he catches the familiar long ears atop his husband's head, before settling back, into those nuzzles.]
Do those changes add to what you can feel? I don't want to have to become a wolf again to get you to notice me.
[He mutters, remembering how Mettaton had cried out when he'd bitten him. Even if he couldn't remember what he'd said, some sounds didn't require translation.
But he knew that touch wasn't the sole component in their effectiveness on each other. (Or taste, or scent...) Yet he'd been spoiled by it, and though their first times together in bed hadn't included any ability to shapeshift, they had included heightened sensitivity on the puca's part. And... they hadn't known any better. They'd still been exploring one another, deepening their investment by degrees.
And even then they'd ached for more.
Turning his head slightly into that kiss, he tries to defer that sense of being disheartened already. He wasn't even the one lacking sensation... but he was the one aspected to negativity. Holding back a sigh, trying to focus on the elevation of his pulse, the firmness of his own cock, the interest in his body for the other man. His love for his company.]
We can see how far we get, I suppose.
[Enthusiasm.]
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[Delivered a bit flatly, as Emet-Selch's enthusiasm is evident. But Mettaton understood the ache, and he presses his cheek to Emet-Selch's shoulders for the moment. In answer to his question, though, Mettaton attempts to squirm closer. His presses impossibly flush to his body, testing himself for sensation, but finding it hard to tell how he'd respond to pain. Pain, the thing he found most intense of all... But he even liked that after he'd regained sensation.
Were his senses enhanced? He tries to smell. He tries to taste, kissing slow and deliberate, a soft, silicone tongue flicking out to press against the Ascian's flesh. And then...]
...If these changes do, I haven't mastered that aspect of it yet. They do not. Though they add to the real estate of places to feel from. Ears, and tail, and all.
[His rabbit-like toes curl. He could feel the bend in their movement, but they felt just as insulated as they should he supposes, given all the fur. He wondered if at some point, they'd enhance his ability to feel.
Though he does offer:] Strangely, if I shapeshift fully into a rabbit... I can feel pets quite vividly! [He smiles.] But, ha. That's not very helpful right now.
[Bunny shapeshifts were not very sexy.
There's a level of self-consciousness that settles heavily in Mettaton, though not sourced from Emet-Selch. It's himself, as he considers all they used to love in his shapeshifted body, and what they lacked now. They were capable of exploring each other and sating themselves on hypotheticals, before Mettaton had ever been capable of shapeshifting properly. But now they knew what love they had for sexual intimacy, exploring bodies conveniently equipped with points of intense arousal.
They would continue to ache for more, more acutely than ever. Mettaton closes his eye again, frustrated by all he lacked. All of the need he felt, impotent. Nails dig into Emet-Selch's chest on reflex, feeling trapped.
But he had Emet-Selch. He had his body. Mettaton breathes him in, imagines his warmth; he feels the firmness and softness of skin alike, swallowing while he drowns himself in the softness of pliant skin beneath his fingertips. Shuddering slightly, he finds his hands wandering lower, prodding his abdomen in a state of both fond fascination, and even envy.]
Even so... With all I am, and with all you are. I will show you my love for you, and reflect it in your body, as well as my own.
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And then those rabbit senses were tested. Emet-Selch waits for the verdict, without daring to hope that more would amount from this beyond the sensation of being kissed. And the touches were nice, pleasing and intimate... but he sighs anyway at the expected conclusion. Though he holds back from pointing out that having more places to touch didn't matter if Mettaton couldn't feel anything from them, it doesn't keep the disappointed tone from him.]
'Tis a familiar look, if nothing else.
[A full rabbit shapeshift... no. He might appreciate holding Mettaton like that at another point, but it was not sexy. Even the mention of it deflates him a little; was that really the best hope his lover had to feel anything? As a literal animal?
Claws dig into him, and Emet-Selch bites a sound back, not wanting to make things worse, but equally not wanting to pretend that he was content with what they had left to them. Without even their Bond, their souls and moods connected, they couldn't blend that way either- and no matter how close Mettaton pressed to him, they remained more distant than ever. Separate, in a way he didn't know how to reach past.
...The Bond really had been something of a crutch, when it came to expressing himself. Like this, he felt muted in a different way, even as he feels Mettaton shudder against his back, and he didn't know how or what to reassure him with. He takes a breath.]
It's fine. We'll manage.
[It's not enthusiasm, but it's a little better. A wanting to try, even if it made all the aches worse. And Mettaton's hands did feel good on him, claws and all, especially when they trail to his abdomen.]
You can... move lower than that.
[Voice lowering to a murmur, he pushes himself back against Mettaton's body, as if in an insistence to being held tighter, and his legs spread slightly.]
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It hurt, to feel his lover's interest faded. That his body failed at something, and there was no peacocking he could do to make up for that sheer lack. But Mettaton still felt himself worth arousal, for all he is, and his frustration exists alongside desire. Even without the anatomy of it, Mettaton desires Emet-Selch, after it all. He truly wanted his intimacy, his control, his love and his vulnerability. He wanted everything Emet-Selch was, and wanted Emet-Selch to treat him to the same deliberation he ever had.
Emet-Selch's words do reach Mettaton. He smiles; he presses his lips to his shoulder, and gives him a gentle nuzzle. He could tell that those simple words conveyed more than met the eye, a desire to hold his heart and reassure him.]
We will. ...Thank you.
[Earnestly, he speaks, soft and low. He even feels tension drain from him just through his own gratitude expressed—and in reflecting over his own warmth, it takes him off-guard as he feels Emet-Selch push back, his thighs pushing against Mettaton's as he spreads his legs encouragingly.
Mettaton exhales, eager and focused. He can't help himself as he presses ever tighter to Emet-Selch's body, winding arms squeezing his victim in his excitement for the presentation of Emet-Selch's body. His fingers drift low, claws a gentle scratch as he charts a path lower upon request.]
Hades...
[It's awe and want that tinges his voice, deep and tense. His ears are sprung, though they lean for the man in front of him, if at an akimbo splay. Emet-Selch's waistband remains an obstacle, his pants still there—but that doesn't stop Mettaton as he greedily makes for the front of his pants, immediately palming the prominence to be found between thighs.
Wracked with a bout of shudders, Mettaton exhales, covetous and hungry.]
Ah... You. You never fail to impress... I wouldn't have your response to me any other way.
[He couldn't help but be flattered just at the way Emet-Selch reacted to his presence, and all of the history they had behind them. Even when they'd first taken to intimacy, even when they stood together in a kissing booth... he remembers the grief in parting then, and how he just knew Emet-Selch was aroused. Any time he knew, it never failed to spark delight and desire in him. Fingers dance along the firm line trapped under fabric, rolling in a gentle pinch over the fullness of the tip.]
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And still, a part of that arousal was the knowledge and memory of how touch would follow, that the robot took his own pleasure from seeing him hard as well. If he was wanting, it was difficult to imagine Mettaton turning him away.
All of that was true. And with the way Mettaton pressed to him now, with the way he spoke, Emet-Selch knew he was still desired too. Nudging his head against the other man's as best he could, it was a wordless request for closeness. The splay of his legs was a welcoming gesture too, even though they were still clothed.
...Even so. Even so, Emet-Selch knew he wasn't as drawn in as he should be, when Mettaton handled his body. There were limits now that he couldn't escape thinking about. The robot could get him off with ease, but... that was it.
But his breath takes on a shuddered note all the same, a whisper of Mettaton's name, as his body certainly knew what to do when he was being touched by him. Not as directly as it might like, but with the sort of tease that could be made good on. Fabric could be parted, removed entirely, and the strength of his reaction made explicitly visible. A shameless display he'd ever enjoyed pressing to Mettaton's body in an appeal for attention or appreciation- or just friction.
(And so often too did he go relatively neglected- brought to pleasure and relief both through some application of Mettaton's own erection. Through Mettaton's climax, he was lured to his own- when permitted. And even when he was allowed to come first, it was often to enhance the robot's own release, which of course enhanced his own....
Tantalizing imagery. Memories. If ones he tries to not dwell on too closely, in favor of the expert, familiar way he could watch Mettaton handle him now, along a length that filled for him.)]
You never fail to inspire. Too much so, at times...
[It's not a real grumble, but the show of one. From their first (technically second) kiss, and the interest that came with it, they'd both been aroused that afternoon, and so suddenly. But they maintained decency (beyond whatever they lost from making out behind a kissing booth), even as the prospect of taking to each other right then had been... attractive.
Just as he was attracted now to what they were doing- and with far more experience together behind them. Knowledgeably touched, rather than curiously, though they'd never known hesitation once they'd begun. His own fingers grip at the side of the bed, and his thighs tense with the desire to press up, to roll his hips into Mettaton's hand. But he didn't want to move away from his body either.]
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The mage responds to the monster readily, practiced and primed. Memories and dreams strike them both, as the former-puca recalls the way that Emet-Selch could be made to fill out for him, even before he'd shapeshifted anything concrete to busy himself with. Mettaton sighs, pressing his hand firmly and fully to trap his cock against his body, stuck between clothes and hand and with pressure applied. There was so much they loved to do with a point of pleasure like this—and Mettaton focuses on all he could do to Emet-Selch, to deprive and overwhelm, to restrain or demand.
Needy, Emet-Selch's hips jerk, and Mettaton hums an ascending note of interest at his show. He can't help but chuckle lowly at the accusation that he hears and knows isn't deeply felt, insofar as its delivery. Past fabric, he continues to appreciate his firm and filling arousal, working from pinching the tip to groping him down toward his root with a possessive, commanding confidence. Mettaton viewed Emet-Selch's body as his own, and this was his cock to touch and treat, to deny and to please.]
But I like that. To inspire dreams beyond the constraints of sense... [His voice, a soft purr, is pressed to the side of Emet-Selch's neck, where he brushes soft, silicone lips.] And to captivate you, and draw you into my own dreams. I'd argue it, Hades... that you're a bit of an inspiration yourself, love.
[An inspiration to Mettaton specifically, whether it was the solid basis of his shapeshifts, or the desire to reach for more and more. He sighs, working his way down, down, fingers pinching the shape of his cock beneath fabric, until he bites at his lower lip and fully grips him. His fingers slide between thighs, the motion to grab both his balls and cock in a gesture of ownership, all before sighing warmly against skin.
He remembers the way he'd felt back then, when he was first exploring Emet-Selch's body. And somehow... somehow, it even paled to this kind of intensity, Mettaton realizes with a start. The ache he feels is somehow acute, even without muscles, without veins. He gasps, fingers squeezing and handling his balls as his palm is nudged firmly against his root, and Mettaton lets him go only so that his hand can quickly chart a path straight to his waistband. It was a sort of psychological ache, something that set his body to heating, electricity to course fast in his body—and even behind Emet-Selch, the robot shifts with pent-up need to move.
That gasp is released in a sigh that is utter heat. Not burning nor scalding, but hot air, void of damp. He could feel Emet-Selch keep from thrusting, and as Mettaton takes to the fastening of his trousers with a deft hand, he gives Emet-Selch a brief nip to the side of his neck.]
Mm. Stay still for me, now. I want to appraise what I've done to you... since you think it too much.
[And even here, even though he was sorely lacking a crucial part to their passion play... Mettaton is too focused on their collective arousal to dwell on it right now.]
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[Smoothly arrogant, but emotionally touched all the same, he felt an appreciation for all that they did inspire in each other. Though he knew Mettaton's consideration of his body had both its practical and personal aspects, the addiction to their combining was something they'd fostered together. It was inescapable, which was its own problem.
Was it even possible to escape from past escapes? Emet-Selch didn't know, but his swift pulse and filling cock spoke of a reason to try. Though he doubted his own ability to be pulled under completely, for Mettaton to take him to a depth that could briefly sate him- he thought it likely that it would feel good, anyway. Tempering expectations, but appreciating being touched at all- he could do that much.
The robot's fingers were a convincing argument in themselves, and he shivers as the attention to his tip turns to a groping for his girth. Even through fabric, it was nicely possessive, the way Mettaton grabbed for both balls and shaft. And he responds with a soft groan, escaping with an exhale of breath. Not as warm as the robot behind him, but heated all the same, and a touch damp as an organic entity would be. For all that it was forgiving material, it was beginning to feel quite constrictive, with the way Mettaton was grasping him, with as hard as he was getting.
Or he was just eager to be touched directly. Which is why he can't complain too far, when Mettaton abandons that hold in favor of slipping to the fastenings, anticipation warming him through. The nip to his neck has him tilting his head in offering, a soft gasp preceding his reply.]
A call to remain still... you do know how to appeal to me.
[A touch wry. Even if Mettaton was also good at giving him reasons to move, for all that he ever remained not as inclined in that direction as the robot. But for the point of appraising, of attention- yes. He could remain as still as desired. How obedient he felt otherwise was yet to be decided.]
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Because even wound up, bound and tied, Emet-Selch would be stubborn and defiant. Mettaton smiles wider- almost maddened, hungered. The quickness of his fingers stumble, fumbling to free what lies beneath cloth, and the robot coaxes his pants to part for him with another gentle nibble of the Ascian's neck.]
Hades... [Is all he finds himself saying, voice a low purr. For the moment, he's transfixed on his prize—and Mettaton lifts his head so that he's on alert, ears leaning far enough that they're surely making their way into Emet-Selch's vision. Clawed fingertips push deep between folds, and the puca-like robot fondles his mate, gasping softly at the sensation of his filled, filling erection, pushing at restraint of fabric. And now, at the grip of his hand.
With a soft groan, Mettaton could sympathetically feel the rigidity as though it were his own. He doesn't even need to close his eyes, wrapping fingertips around Emet-Selch's root as he pushes and parts fabric further to properly free his cock with a roll of his wrist, fighting his trousers to pull free his erection. And once free, Mettaton only barely manages to lift his hand from skin, just to give him a look, to appraise him as he'd promised.]
How you always manage to be a delightful presentation, I'll never know. [Mettaton sighs, stroking a finger along his length, the underside of the root all the way up until he gives the tip a firm press, causing him to bob.] If you want more things to do for me... Won't you lay back on the bed, darling? I want to... better appreciate you.
[Better appreciate, punctuated with another nip to his shoulder, ardent yet gentle. In spite of his condition, Mettaton's mind races with all he wanted to do, whether he could manage it in his current state or not. He wanted to lay him down, to spread his legs, to stuff his own cock between his thighs and describe how good he looked full him and erect; he wanted to lay him down and kiss him from neck to ankles, to leave him bitten and sensitive. He wanted to straddle his hips and push their cocks together, to grip them both until they oozed, slick and sticky and perfect to jerk off in tandem... Mettaton shivers with a sigh, pressing bodily against Emet-Selch.
But he similarly tugs at him, encouraging him to climb deeper onto the mattress. He would be more than supportive in helping him into place. He smirks against his neck, lips grazing along skin until he's just beneath his ear, able to nip at his earring.]
And by appreciate... I want the full spread of your body, Hades.
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Even though it was for the sake of observation, which in itself he enjoyed, he can't quite stifle the small protesting sound when Mettaton unhands his erection, for even a moment.]
If we're to talk of presentation, I've always found your hand to be an appropriate accessory.
[A hint, delivered. Though it was more than his hand that appealed, as the sight of his cock pressed to any part of Mettaton's body was an attractive one. Framed between his thighs, taken into his mouth, pressed firm and thick against Mettaton's own cock, where they could stroke each other off into a sticky mess- they were only a few of the ways he loved to see himself.
But he's provided a tease of a touch, his cock made to wobble in the open air, and given another simple task.]
--Once more, you appeal to my expertise.
[It was often enough that he ended upon his back, in bed... but he wasn't inclined to argue over this request either, aligned to his own desires and nature as it was. A tug deeper onto their modest bed is accepted, though there's a bit of wriggling involved to make sure that his pants didn't come with him. With all fabric slid off to gather unceremoniously on the floor, Emet-Selch shifts the small distance into the center of the bed, and lays down, head aligned with their pillows.
Shivering a little from being so uncovered, the air feeling far cooler than the heat of his body, the warmth of arousal, he glances down at himself, his erection even more of a sight this way, swollen and gently curved. Though his body had a few bruises left, healing sores and scrapes, they were all a result of wolfhood rather than loving ardor.
Exhaling a shaking breath, his gaze soon returned to Mettaton. Unlike the robot, he wasn't so naturally inclined towards posing, or conscious display, but the mage was comfortable, at ease with his casual sprawl, legs slightly parted. A languid wave towards himself completes the appeal(?).]
How spread is full enough for you?
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